The Return Of Jonah Gray. Heather Cochran

they don’t hold up under liquid.

      “My God, Ricardo!” I said, grabbing the paper. It ripped as I took it from him. It began to come apart in my hands.

      “I was holding it and then, well, couldn’t you hear? I had to protect myself.”

      “With a piece of paper?” I spread the remains out on my desk. Half of the page had either been pulled off or had disintegrated. It was hard to tell which.

      “Everyone knows that newsprint is just a weak mix of waste-paper pulps. You can’t expect it to maintain any tensile strength when wet. The fibers are way too short.”

      Ricardo blinked at me, water still dripping off of him. “Not everyone knows that. Just geeks like you. Believe it or not, that isn’t what went through my mind when the pipe exploded.”

      “Where’s the rest of it?” I asked.

      “I’m not going back up there,” Ricardo said.

      The soggy remains on my desk looked like the beginnings of an unpromising papier-mâché effort. And I had a sinking feeling that I was in possession of the healthiest remnant. “That was the original. I’m going to have to request a replacement.”

      “So call Mr. Bean Man. Mr. Funny Dead Chickens.”

      “And tell him what?”

      Ricardo shrugged. “I don’t know. Mention the tensile strength of newsprint. What man wouldn’t swoon?”